The Automaton

Recommendations

Info

The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/11/2011 waiting to receive the message. A black sleeve of mercerized cotton, a long, white starched-cotton cuff, and her hand itself, pinkly white and very clean, with a slender palm and long fingers with short but even nails. Why this should stay in my memory I do not know. It was not, well, it was not the hand of a servant. There was the ghost of a smile on her lips. ‘So. You are the boy from the Comedy, eh?’ ‘Yes, Mrs Lisle,’ I said, looking up at her thin, intelligent face. She possessed a compelling gaze, I recall. She was attentive to the way I pronounced her name. Apparently it satisfied her. Well, if you are nothing very much in life, then, well, again, there’s not much you can do about it. My father’s a very intelligent man, but he had no education. Mrs Lisle was not unpleasant, but you — were you me — somehow knew that she regarded you as her inferior in the chain of natural order. ‘I’ll take the message to the master. You wait here. I daresay there’ll be an answer.’ She turned to the hallmaid. ‘Betsy. Give the boy something for his lunch. Cold mutton. Pickled red cabbage. Bread. A pot of cider. An apple. That do?’ she asked, turning back to me. ‘You are very generous, Mrs Lisle,’ I said. She gave me a faded smile and held up the message. ‘I shall return.’ And so, waited on by Betsy, I sat at the scrubbed elm table and ate. Mrs Lisle returned, drew out the chair opposite me, gathered her long skirts and sat down, her posture surprisingly supple and informal; she placed her elbows on the table. ‘Sufficient?’ ‘Very welcome, Mrs Lisle. I was just expecting to present the message and to be told to leave.’ ‘Quite so. The master is writing a reply as we speak. Betsy, leave us, please.’ Betsy quietly left, closing the door behind her. ‘What is your name?’ ‘William Bradney.’ ‘You are schooled?’ ‘I go to Dr Freemain’s Grammar, Mrs Lisle,’ I said. ‘I thought so. Scholarship on need and merit?’ ‘Yes, Mrs Lisle. I’m fortunate.’ ‘Well, yes, but you are clever, too. Your parents are well spoken of, William. I say this for one reason. I’ll get to the point. Should your father lose his situation because of, oh, the difficulties at the Comedy, he may be able to find employment here. Tell him that. The master is very pleased with him. Perceptive and stoic.’ She put her head on one side. ‘The virtues. Do you yourself have the temperament of a servant? Were your education to be curtailed through lack of money?’ She laughed, frankly. ‘I didn’t have that temperament as a girl. But as a young woman I taught myself. You have to teach yourself to adapt in order to survive. And you are well spoken. I noted —’ her eyes narrowed ‘— your hesitant deference when you first spoke to me: that I did not mind. The system sort of works, and, if it sort of works, and puts bread on your table and coals in your hearth, what more can you ask of it? Certainly not beauty or elegance. But it’ll all change after the coming crisis.’ A bell, one in a row of several, sounded above our heads. ‘Library,’ said Mrs Lisle, standing, but not looking at the bell indicator board. ‘I recognise the timbre. How even the intelligent are, well, conditioned. The reply. Wait. I’ll fetch it.’ 2
The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/11/2011 She returned within a minute. ‘Here,’ she said. The envelope was sealed with a preposterous seal of red wax. Mrs Lisle gave me a somewhat sardonic half-smile. ‘Always retain your sense of humour: in a cast of irony.’ She held up the reply, turning the letter in her long fingers, her action filled with faint contempt, even disdain. ‘By the weight of wax you’d think it might be a court document, wouldn’t you? A statutory instrument? Something to do with the Entente Cordiale, perhaps, about to put the Kaiser’s nose out of joint: furtive Johnny Bull sidling off with his French trollop Marianne, maybe?’ She placed the note in my hand with a significant stare. ‘How I appreciate the allusive.’ She sighed. ‘I miss intelligent conversation, you know. It’s rare: more so than you would think.’ She let me out of the tradesmen’s door herself, saying ‘take care!’ and watched me as I walked down the rear drive. When I reached the gateposts, I turned on impulse and raised my arm in valediction. She — still watching me — immediately responded. Though I never met her again she made a considerable impression on me. I can see the pose of her slim-palmed, long-fingered hand to this day. The hand of an educated lady. I returned to the station. It was a pleasant afternoon. I stood on the single platform awaiting the return train; I had expected myself to be alone, but I was not; a young woman joined me. She was older than me; her face was very attractive but her walk was awkward. She had a decided limp. She approached me. ‘You are awaiting the 2:10 also?’ ‘I am,’ I said. She smiled at me from under the shade of her plain straw hat. ‘I’ve not seen you here before; what brings you to this remoteness?’ ‘I was taking a message to Mr Peasey,’ I said. ‘Ah! You’ll be the young man from the Comedy, then.’ She held out her hand in a very friendly fashion. ‘Elizabeth Peasey,’ she said. We shook hands. ‘We’ll keep each other company on the train,’ she said; we could hear it puffing laboriously as it took the steady gradient from the peat moor below. ‘The Comedy,’ she said. ‘Do you mind living there?’ ‘Well, you are where you are put, but everyone’s always worried about what the future holds,’ I said. ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Elizabeth. ‘There’s not much that one can do. It’s losing money, you know. But —’ She sighed. ‘And renovations would cost far too much. Still, we are young, you and I: we have our lives before us.’ Her face took on a melancholy expression. I noticed that her cheeks were rather flushed and a little feverish; her eyes were brilliant and expressive. And so we made the short journey together, in the same compartment (Miss Peasey having given up her right to first-class travel). As she lifted her long skirt slightly in preparing to sit, I saw that she had iron leg-splints. She never once referred to her illness, but, as we alighted at the terminus, she took my arm as though she were tired. A phaeton from her father’s dockside premises awaited her. I watched her leave with some sadness, and walked to the Comedy. Everything in the entertainment line was grist to the Comedy’s mill. Plays, recitals, opera, variety, pierrot troupes, winter pantomimes: anything short of circus. Occasionally there was a thin period where bookings were few, and then a sense of desperation fell about the place, and the various people who were employed in it began to worry and to fall out over minor matters. I told my father of my conversation with Mrs Lisle; he was very pleased; or said he was. I can’t imagine his being in service, 3
Page 1: The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/1
Page 5 and 6: The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/1

The Automaton

Create successful ePaper yourself

Delete template?

Save as template?